Free Brooklyn Flame (A Bridge & Tunnel Romance #1) by Mira Gibson

herself for what she was about to do, but knowing she wouldn’t be able to stop herself, rock bottom was far too bleak to wallow in alone, she stared at his contact number on the LCD screen. But when she tapped its slick surface, it wasn’t Brandon she called.
    One small victory, she thought, but she had no real reason to hope she had done herself any favors by calling Hunter instead. As she listened to the tinny ring blaring in her right ear and tried not to look at the carnage of her studio, she felt torn. She wanted him to pick up, and yet she didn’t.
    Abruptly, she heard Hunter’s deep voice, but it was only his out going voicemail message - cool confidence with a hint of humor, as he reminded the caller that clearly he was far too busy being an artist to pick up the phone.
    Far too busy being an artist?
    Immediately, she ended the call, confused.
    Before she could get bogged down, pondering the possibilities, she found Brandon’s contact again and placed her call, as if it were a reflex occurring without conscious thought.
    The second she heard his voice cut through the earpiece in a tone that conjured a wealth of memories, she blurted out, “I need to see you.” Confusedly, talking and listening, she slowed her point, as she realized she was listening to a recording. If she wanted to, she could recite it, she had heard it so many times over the course of their relationship, another reason things had ended - he never picked up.
    All of a sudden, her throat felt tight and her mind was racing whether or not to leave a message. Clearly, this wasn’t her night and she might need to accept the probability that the universe might want her to rise up from the ashes all by herself and without support. But though deep down she knew hanging up would be the best tactic - save face, have a drink perhaps, and pick up the pieces of her life, figuratively and literally, when she heard the beep, she found herself launching into a scrambled explanation of why she was reaching out.
    “I know I shouldn’t be calling. It’s not fair to either of us, but I’m having an emergency and...” She fell into a heavy sigh and started back up again. “I need you to be here for me. I’m at home.” Then on a dime, she turned, and offered scattered apologies. Listening to herself as if she were someone else, she told herself to shut up and concluded outwardly, “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have called you. Never mind. Just forget I called.”
    She didn’t just hang up afterwards. She threw her cell phone across the room so she wouldn’t have a chance to do any more damage.
    Muttering aloud to herself, she said, “I’m a fucking mess over this,” and jumped off the couch, rushing into the kitchen as though if she moved fast enough, she could shed the turmoil that was suffocating her.
    Nagging at her from the back of her mind was the notion she should call Tasha or Jennifer or both of them, but for some reason she couldn’t bring herself to reach out. She had always been like that. She didn’t want to burden her closest friends with her problems, because she feared they would resent her. It wasn’t rational, but old childhood wounds that had never healed - a father who had always been too busy for her, a mother who would react so strongly to Greer’s pain and grief that it was rarely worth it to clue her in. When she had, Greer only ended up consoling the woman who had raised her, a daunting task, which left her even more drained than the crisis she had turned to her parents for help on.
    Instead, she pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, didn’t bother with a glass, and slugged it back, drinking as hard and as fast as she could.
    As she forced even more liquor down her throat, she became vaguely aware of a faint buzzing sound coming from the studio. The whiskey was already hitting her bloodstream, warming her limbs, and flooding her emotions with a cloudy sort of calm that felt more numbing than soothing. But her